🌾 “THE RELICWRIGHT AND THE ROBOT BEES”

I woke up this morning to the sound of humming.

Not the good kind of humming, like Barry when he’s making biscuits or the bayou when it’s feeling generous. No — this was the metallic, suspicious humming of Barry’s new robot bees, which I maintain are unnatural, unholy, and probably unionizing.

I stepped out onto the porch and there he was: Barry. The Relicwright. Standing in the yard like he was posing for a trading card nobody asked for.

He wasn’t holding tools. He wasn’t carrying his kit. He just waved his hand and the air rippled — like reality was a curtain he could pull back — and a set of glowing pliers appeared. He didn’t even look impressed. Just nodded like, “Yep, that’s how mornings work now.”

Meanwhile, one of his robots — the tall one with the bucket‑head and the attitude — was repairing the fence. Another was sweeping the walkway. A third was in the garden, pruning tomatoes with the precision of a surgeon who charges by the hour.

I hated it. I hated all of it.

Because it felt like the world was moving on without me. Like Barry had stepped into his destiny and I was still standing in my socks.

But then — and this is where everything changed — the bucket‑head robot turned toward me. Its little eye‑lights blinked. And in a moment of pure, reckless curiosity, I said:

“Hey, uh… could you make me a peanut‑butter‑and‑banana sandwich?”

And the robot nodded. NODDED. Like we had an understanding.

Five minutes later, it handed me the best sandwich I’ve ever had. Perfect ratio. Perfect spread. No judgment. No commentary about my diet. Just pure, unfiltered service.

That’s when I realized something important:

Barry’s robots listen to me.

And suddenly the world didn’t feel so lonely.

I took my sandwich and wandered over to where Barry was kneeling in the grass, coaxing some kind of relic out of the dirt. He didn’t dig. He didn’t pry. He just reached out, and the ground parted like it respected him.

“Morning,” I said.

He glanced up, eyes glowing faintly — not in a scary way, more in a “I’ve seen the blueprint of the universe and it’s actually pretty funny” way.

“Morning,” he said. “Sandwich?”

“Robot made it.”

He nodded like that was normal. “Good. They like having tasks.”

I looked around at the robots, the bees, the invisible kit, the relic floating in his hand like it weighed nothing.

“You ever think,” I said, “that maybe you’re becoming… I don’t know… mythic?”

Barry shrugged. “Feels more like I finally stopped pretending.”

And that hit me harder than I expected.

Because he was right. Everything before this — all the roles he tried on, all the lives he lived — they were like wearing someone else’s clothes. Too tight. Too loose. Wrong color. Wrong cut.

But this? This fit him.

He stood, brushed off his hands, and the relic dissolved into a soft shimmer that sank into his palm.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I lied. “Just getting used to the bees.”

One of them buzzed past my ear like it was taking attendance.

Barry smiled. “They won’t sting you.”

“That’s what people say right before they get stung.”

He laughed — that warm, low laugh that makes the bayou settle down for a minute — and walked back toward the house. The robots followed him like loyal dogs. Even the bees drifted after him in a little cloud of mechanical devotion.

And me?

I stood there on the porch, holding my sandwich, watching Barry the Relicwright walk into his future.

And for the first time, I didn’t feel left behind. I felt… included.

Because the robots listen to me. And Barry still laughs at my jokes. And maybe — just maybe — there’s a place for me in whatever myth he’s building.

Even if the bees are definitely spying on me.